


Angels Need Protection, Too

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 22:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Castiel finds himself ill-prepared for a romantic interlude with the reader. Naturally, he goes to the Winchesters for help. Humor. Non-explicit adult themes (talk of condoms/safe sex).





	Angels Need Protection, Too

The fluorescent bulb above flickers, crackles, and whines the intensifying high-pitched lament of impending burn-out. The shadows of desiccated bug carapaces littered across the battlefield of the opaque plastic cover ghost the flushed features of the agitated angel lingering outside the ruddy orange motel room door with his fist poised to knock. In his urgency, he spares only a brief glance upward at the fantastically brightening light – the thought fleeting that, much like the humans he has come to love, these darkness dispelling electric fixtures tend to burn brightest in the face of certain doom.

“Dean!” he growls an octave deeper on the third attempt to get the Winchester’s attention, rapping a sequence of sharp taps on the motel room door. Growing impatient, he angles sideways to ram the wooden barrier with his shoulder as he reaches for the knob. The blockade swings suddenly inward. Cas stumbles, barely managing not to charge headlong into the boxer, wrinkled t-shirt, and scowl clad Dean.

“Do you know what time it is? It’s-,” Dean grumbles and casts a pointed scolding glimpse to the bare skin of his wrist where his watch typically resides.

“This is important.” Cas pushes past his friend to step uninvited over the threshold. Squinting in the comparative dimness of the room, he observes Sam shift restlessly beneath the blankets on the far bed.

“More important than my 4 hours?” griping, Dean sighs audibly and slams the door shut hard enough to rouse Sam fully from slumber. He evidently figures his brother has just as vested an interest in whatever ridiculous angelic crisis is about to unfold.

“Yes,” Cas hisses through clenched teeth. Dean has no idea how critical this moment is – this matter could possibly be of greater import than anything the angel has experienced in a historically long lineage of important things and he doesn’t intend to mess it up like so many other situations he has rushed head-long into without a plan.

“What? What is it?” Sam mumbles, groggy, sitting upright to rub his eyes in a struggle to concentrate through sleep-bleared vision. “Cas?”

Dean stomps to his chosen bed – the unusually plush motel carpet muffling the irritation he attempts to instill in his footsteps. Laying a balancing palm on the edge of the mattress, he slumps to sit. Slouching forward, elbows resting on his knees, he props his weary head in his hands and grimaces at the traitorous rug.

On a typical evening the angel would feel a pang of remorse for disturbing the brothers’ well-deserved rest. This is not a normal night. Taking several long strides toward the elder Winchester he murmurs in a grave tone, “I need protection.”

“Protection? From what?” Sam’s wakeful alertness surges to the forefront at the prospect of danger. He stands and switches on the side table lamp.

Dean bodily flinches backward in alarm. The corner of his mouth curling in aversion, his green gaze flows upward from the angel’s untied black boots to the exposed skin of his calves, to his knobby knees, and to the muscular peek of thick thighs where the hem of his trench coat falls. He appreciates the modicum of modesty Cas has taken in clamping the beige garment tightly closed around his vessel with the belt, although this gesture does nothing to disguise the angel’s manifest arousal beneath the unmistakable tenting of fabric.

“Dude,” Sam snorts a stifled laugh, “where are your pants?”

“You’re uh-,” Dean stutters, a small smirk surfacing, “-you’re not wearing anything under the coat, are you?”

The angel looks down at himself, brow knotting. He obviously isn’t wearing anything under the coat and the question seems entirely irrelevant to him right now. Regard lifting, eyes embarking on an abbreviated half-roll for the sake of avoiding any further waste of time, he sasses, “No, Dean. I’m not wearing anything under the coat. And I don’t have time for stupid questions.”

Dean raises a hand in defense, “Whatever you say, Flash.”

Sam snickers.

Cas glares at Dean, eyes narrowing, repeating, “I _need_ protection.” He cannot avoid the deepening pink glow of his cheeks in acknowledging his tactical error, “I, uh, miscalculated the value of my angel blade in this particular circumstance. Y/N said you would have what I need.” The angel’s proud stature seems to shrink under the weight of his admission and the openly amused grin alighting Dean’s countenance. “Please Dean,” he pleads, averting his begging blues in humiliation.

Shock aside at the revelation that you and Cas are finally and actually going _there_ – Dean genuinely feels a twinge of guilt over his teasing and a swell of warm compassion for the angel’s plight. He exchanges a flitting glance with Sam – his brother’s eyebrow arching in encouragement for Dean to cut the guy a little slack and give him what he’s asking for. “Yeah, buddy, okay.” Dean rises and grasps Cas’ shoulder in a reassuring squeeze.

Cas meets his friend’s gentled expression. Relief flooding his fretting features, he offers a grateful husky, “Thank you.”

Jostling Cas roughly to preserve a sense of masculinity, Dean moves to the dresser to grab his wallet and fish out the condom he keeps therein. Held lightly between two fingertips, he extends the square packet out in Cas’ direction.

The angel carefully plucks at the foil square. He studies the packet as he gingerly turns it over and over in his fingers. Gazing back up at Dean, he earnestly asks, “Will one be enough?”

Dean flashes a disbelieving sidelong glower at his brother. Silently insinuating, _‘As if!’_

Ever the brainier brother, Sam shrugs, noting, “Well, he _is_ an angel.” That, and he’s sure neither of them wants Cas showing up at the door again tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or the next.

“Right, of course, _an angel_ ,” Dean concedes with a knowing, but not really knowing, nod. What he does know is in his experience angels do nothing in small measure, and Sam is right – it’s probably best to send him into the fray equipped for any and all possible contingencies. Rifling through the inner pocket of his duffle, he triumphantly produces an astonishing multitude of attached chains of varying prophylactics.

Dean drops the lot of them into Cas’ upturned palms and the angel’s eyes snap wide. Jaw gaping lax, Cas has so many questions – particularly about why green apple flavoring would be a necessary addition.

Sam is at the door, swinging it open before the angel can speak.

The cool rush of night air winds in to muss Cas’ dark locks.

Grasping him by the shoulders, Dean spins his friend toward the door. Shoving his back to nudge him outside, he imparts some final unasked for advice to, “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

The door closes behind the angel with a hollow thud. Sam yawns and mumbles something to Dean about being owed a rather significant sum of money for a bet won. The failing fluorescent bulb above radiates a blinding white and bursts.


End file.
